


If I can't see the sun

by IAmNotOneOfThem



Category: Glanni Glæpur í Latabæ, LazyTown
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Violence, Shock, Vomiting, tags will be added as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 23:37:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10501830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotOneOfThem/pseuds/IAmNotOneOfThem
Summary: When his crystal tells him that Glanni is in trouble, Íþróttaálfurinn expected anything butthis.Thiswasn't something he could fix with a flip and some exercise;thiswasn't somethinghecould fix at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger warning:** Major character injury; blood; broken bones; black eyes; vomiting; shock; panic attacks; graphic depiction of injuries

MayhemTown was already not particularly beautiful at daytime, but the moonlight seemed to bring out the worst of it. It was like the city gave up all pretence once the sun went down, washed off the make-up that created the illusion of something marginally clean and showed the world its true face.

The upper part of MayhemTown was presentable, compared to the rest. Íþróttaálfurinn’s attempts at cleaning up hadn’t come to fruition just yet, but the progress was most visible around the city hall, where the rich and comfortably middle-class citizens lived. The underbelly of MayhemTown, however, looked just as bad as it had when he’d first arrived, if not worse.

It was almost hard to believe that Latabæ was just one town over.

Íþrótt stepped over a puddle of something green and yellow and did his best to breathe through his mouth. The smell might be the worst thing. There was nothing pure, clear left; the air was polluted through and through, smelled of exhaust gas, fumes, cigarette smoke, puke, piss and dirt. Breathing in the sorry excuse for air almost felt like the stink was settling on his lungs and slowly but surely turning them black.

He’d been here many times already, but the reek was something he would never get used to. Every time his presence was needed here, it felt like he discovered a new stench that stuck out amidst the general nastiness that was MayhemTown’s downtown and clung to his clothes for weeks afterwards.

Today, it was blood.

The horrid, sickening sweet was another thing he’d never get used to, no matter how often he was confronted with it. Latabæ never saw injuries horrible enough to draw the amount of blood it took so you could smell it, the metallic, heavy and festering scent of someone having lost so much of it they desperately needed help. A paper cut here, a scrape there, the occasional cut large enough to need stitches, but never _that much_.

MayhemTown was much different in that regard, as it was in many others. Someone being injured so badly here, where crime happened more frequently than a cloudless blue sky, where there were not even half as many hospital beds as there were people needing medical aid, shouldn’t have surprised him, shouldn’t have bothered him the way it did.

As a hero, every person being in trouble was important to him, but some people were _more important_.

Right now, the fact that his crystal had alerted him to _Glanni_ needing help didn’t make things any better. It had the opposite effect.

Ever since Glanni had _poisoned a whole town_ and _forced children into working for his profit_ , to name the _worst_ of the _many things_ he’d done to Latabæ, the criminal had avoided the town like the plague. His name had come up again and again, the first time when he’d escaped police custody shortly after the whole incident, more recently after a break-in local authorities attributed to him, and every time, Íþróttaálfurinn had tried to hunt him down. Successfully, every now and then, but mostly, Glanni evaded his grip like a snake, slithering through the cracks and disappearing in the shadows, just to re-appear a week or two later, up to no good once more.

It was annoying and fun and Íþróttaálfurinn had never felt more alive.

There was _something_ between them, a something that refused to be named or labelled, a body- and shapeless connection practically forcing him to chase after the cat burglar even outside the reach of his crystal. He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t enjoy their game of cat-and-mouse, but by the gods, he did. He’d come to look forward to the next time his crystal would beep and alert him to Glanni’s wrongdoings.

But not like this.

Not when he couldn’t shake off the feeling that this time, the crystal wasn’t beeping because Glanni was causing trouble, but because _he_ was _in trouble_. Serious trouble, going by the smell of blood, so much blood, he could almost taste it on his tongue. Images were flashing behind his mind’s eye and he couldn’t tell whether it was his crystal projecting the scene into his head or if he was imagining worst-case-scenarios.

Both options didn’t help calm down his rapidly beating heart. He picked up his pace, running past homeless people littering the alleys and streets like garbage, forgotten and abandoned; ignoring the flashing eyes of criminals or rats – who could tell the difference here, where the lowest of the low scum lived, both man and rodent scurrying through the darkness in eternal search of something they’d probably never find – watching him as he frantically ran past their hideouts, letting the pull of his crystal lead him to Glanni.

The first thing he saw as he rounded the corner was a hand. For a moment, his heart stopped beating. He nearly slipped from how quickly he turned right, foot momentarily losing its grip on the ground. Íþróttaálfurinn had to hold onto the wall, vision spinning, a high-pitched, long-drawn _beep_ in his head drowning out all other noise.

Maybe it was the blaring of his crystal; maybe it was his blood rushing through his ears, as if trying to compensate for the puddle in front of him.

_There was so much blood_.

Somewhere, in the back of his head, he was aware that it could only be about five litres, at most, not calculating in Glanni’s body weight, but it was so much, the whole ground was _red_ and _slippery_ , and somewhat belatedly, he realised he’d literally slipped on Glanni’s blood.

Sour, acidy bile rose in his throat.

His gaze followed the line of Glanni’s hand – not _severed_ , like he’d thought at first, still attached to his body, albeit in a weird angle – along his arm, his suit cut up and shining with soaked-up wetness. Next to the black spandex, the ashen-white of Glanni’s skin and the _red_ blood stuck out even more. _So much red_.

And Glanni wasn’t moving.

A voice in his head, sounding suspiciously like his father, urged Íþróttaálfurinn to move, but he couldn’t. It was as if time stood still and he wasn’t a living, breathing being, but a statue, condemned to stare at the scene in front of him without being able to help.

He looked at Glanni’s face, which was beaten and bruised, one of his eyes swollen shut, already black and blue, the other closed, it looked like he was-

Íþróttaálfurinn choked on his breath and lifted a hand to his mouth, pressing his fist against his lips to muffle all sound. The beeping of his crystal was becoming more and more frantic, and Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t tell whether it was because Glanni’s condition was getting worse or because Íþróttaálfurinn was long beyond being _on the verge of_ a panic attack, but was right in the middle of one.

He tried to take a deep breath, but his throat felt constricted, letting through only the barest minimum to ensure Íþróttaálfurinn’s survival. Was Glanni still breathing? He had to—He had to check for a pulse, had to assess the damage, had to call help and—

Íþróttaálfurinn’s knees gave way, sent him on the ground to kneel in the puddle of Glanni’s blood. He tried not to think about it too much – in fact, he tried not to think _at all_ , beyond the steps he had to go through, or else the panic would catch up with him again. He had to stay focused, he couldn’t panic, not now, not until Glanni’s condition was stable enough to call help.

One step after the other, he told himself, focus on what to do next, _don’t think_.

He reached for Glanni’s left hand, the other twisted in such a way he didn’t want to move it, and searched for his pulse. At first, he didn’t find anything, as he was shaking far too much to feel _anything_ , but it was there, barely noticeable, weak and unsteady, but _there_. Íþróttaálfurinn let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding and gently lowered Glanni’s arm again, trying not to let his gaze linger on the plethora of small cuts on his palm and fingers, as if he’d tried to protect himself from someone with a knife.

Next step: Breathing.

Íþróttaálfurinn leant forward until his face was hovering inches above Glanni’s and waited. The moment he felt the ghost of a breath against his skin, he leant back again, a bit more of the tension leaking from his body. Glanni was alive and breathing. He was _still alive_. Íþrótt didn’t know what he’d have done had he arrived too late, to find Glanni’s _corpse_ , just because he hadn’t been fast enough—

A choked sob made it past Íþróttaálfurinn’s lips and for a moment, he could barely see anything but blurry red and black. Angrily, he blinked away the tears. _Focus_.

What next?

The cuts on his hands weren’t bleeding anymore, already clotted up, so he didn’t need to worry about that. They were small and didn’t look deep, certainly not deep enough to cause so much blood loss, so where…

For the first time since finding Glanni, Íþróttaálfurinn pried his eyes away from his face, and looked at his lower body.

His hand wasn’t fast enough to cover his mouth; vomit shot out, past his fingers, and he barely managed to turn away from Glanni before he was throwing up, bile mixing with tears as he sobbed.

Being a hero, he’d undergone medical training. He’d seen pictures of injuries, right next to the text boxes that described how to take care of them, and had seen real injuries too, wounds that occasionally re-appeared as flashes in his dreams, glimpses of blood, cuts and broken limbs.

But he’d never seen something like this.

It almost looked like Glanni’s lower leg was split in half. There was a _fist-sized_ _hole_ in his leg, a gaping wound that was still gushing blood. _The maximum blood loss in the leg was 2.1 litres_ , Íþróttaálfurinn knew, but there was so much of it, it looked like _dozens_ of litres had already pooled around Glanni’s leg and more was _still coming_.

That wasn’t what had made Íþrótt throw up, no; the blood he could, somewhat, deal with, but…

In theory, he’d known what a compound fracture was. He’d seen medical drawings of such breaks before, but seeing one in person was a whole different story.

Íþróttaálfurinn couldn’t make himself look. Not that he had to; the image of a _bone sticking out through tattered skin,_ revealing _muscles and flesh_ , was burnt into his mind, was there as he closed his eyes and tried to get his breathing under control, as well as to stop retching.

He took a deep, shuddering breath through his mouth, the scent of bile mixed with blood nearly making him throw up again, but he gritted his teeth and pushed off the wall.

“Think Íþróttaálfurinn,” the elf said out loud and winced at the sound of his own voice. “Think. _Think…_ Fractured limb, first-aid. Immobilize leg. Rest. Apply ice pack, wrapped in pillowcase or towel, to decrease swelling. Elevate. No food or drink, in case of operation…”

He pointedly did not look at Glanni’s leg, instead focused on the weak rise and fall of his chest. Glanni was unconscious and unmoving; his leg was resting. Íþrótt didn’t have any ice packs with him. The moment the idea to run to his balloon and get some crossed his mind, he pushed the thought away again. There was no way he’d leave Glanni alone, not when he might return to find him—

_Focus._

He could elevate the limb, but for one, the mere thought of touching it made Íþrótt want to throw up again, and he didn’t want to risk making the injury any worse by moving the leg. Which left no food and nothing to drink, which hadn’t been an issue to begin with, given how Glanni was still unconscious.

If he hadn’t been breathing, Íþróttaálfurinn would have lost it.

He was so still, so uncharacteristically quiet and motionless. Ever since their little game begun, he’d seen Glanni sleep once or twice and he’d never been this calm. Glanni was a restless sleeper; twisting and turning, as much as was possible, spread out with long limbs and a twitching face. Right now, he looked like a corpse.

The mental image made Íþrótt feel even more sick than before.

There was nothing, literally nothing, he could do but call for help. The next hospital was too far away to quickly run there and alert the emergency doctors and nurses. Besides, he really didn’t want to leave Glanni alone. But he also did not have a phone and while his crystal was good for alerting _him_ to emergencies, it couldn’t alert anyone else. Lifting his head to stare at the dark, cloudy night sky, Íþrótt wished he’d accepted Goggi’s offer to build him a phone. Right now, he really could use one.

Carefully he ran his hand along Glanni’s sides, but couldn’t feel anything that would have pointed to the criminal hiding something. Glanni didn’t seem to have a phone either; and if he had had one, whoever did this to him must have stolen it.

Against his will, his mind began to wander.

Who would hurt someone like Glanni this badly? Sure, he was a criminal and a nuisance, but that didn’t justify hurting him, especially not like _this_. Had it been a coincidence, a robbery gone wrong, and Glanni had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or was he specifically chosen? Who could be so angry at Glanni that they’d…

Something metallic caught his attention.

He lowered his head and stared at the _something_ lying a bit further away, half-hidden in the shadows of the two buildings they were between. Íþróttaálfurinn squinted, narrowing his eyes, until he could make out the shape.

It was a pipe.

Dented, as if…

“Fuck,” he cursed.

“Aren’t you s’posed to be a hero or something?”

Íþróttaálfurinn turned his head at dizzying speed and started at the boy standing in the faint light of the street lamp right across the alley.

“Heroes shouldn’t curse, should they?”

“What are you doing here?”

The boy shrugged. “Heard someone throw up and wanted to see if it’s a drunk. They’re easy to steal from.” When Íþrótt just continued to stare at him, the boy stepped closer. He barely looked at Glanni, but seemed unfazed, as if he’d seen worse things.

If he was from around here, that was, unfortunately, all too likely.

“Shit, someone fucked your friend up pretty bad.”

“Oh really,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, pinching his nose and slowly counting to ten. Beneath the dirt and grime, the boy couldn’t have been older than the kids in Latabæ, yet he acted more mature, like he had been forced to grow up faster than a child should have. Was he an orphan? Didn’t MayhemTown have orphanages? “You should be going, kid. This isn’t…”

“For children?” The boy snorted. “I’ve seen worse.”

Íþrótt shook his head. “What’s your name?”

“Beinir.”

“Alright, Beinir. I’m—“

The boy rolled his eyes. “I know who you are. Everyone around here calls you mustard elf.”

“Íþró—What do you mean, mustard elf?” Beinir just snickered quietly and nudged Glanni’s uninjured leg with the tip of his shoe. Íþrótt nudged him aside. “Doesn’t matter… I need your help.”

Beinir raised an eyebrow. “My help?”

“Yes.” Íþróttaálfurinn gestured to Glanni’s still-unconscious form. “I can’t leave him alone like this, but he urgently needs help. Someone needs to lead the paramedics here.”

“This someone,” Beinir said, “is probably me, huh? What do I get in return?”

Íþróttaálfurinn had already opened his mouth to scold him – how dare Beinir ask for compensation when there was a person literally dying at his feet – but closed it before the words could spill out. He wasn’t in Latabæ, but in MayhemTown, in its darkest corner, of all places. Sympathy and mercy didn’t come free.

With blood-stained fingers, he reached for the small sachet attached to his belt and pulled out a handful of krónas. He offered them to Beinir, who took them immediately, made a big show of counting them, then nodded.

“You know, I could just run off now and you’d wait here for hours.” Íþróttaálfurinn glared. Beinir shuffled from one foot to the other and huffed. “I was joking. Jeez. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Íþrótt followed the boy’s slender frame with his eyes until he disappeared around the corner, then collapsed. His forehead came to rest on Glanni’s shoulder and he closed his eyes, fingers curled around Glanni’s wrist to feel his pulse.

He didn’t know for how long he was just sitting there, half-praying that Glanni would wake up, but on the other hand wanting him to stay unconscious, so he wouldn’t be in pain, when he heard frantic footsteps, growing louder and louder as whoever was running came near.

Íþrótt tiredly lifted his head and watched passively as the medics joined him at Glanni’s side, the lights of the ambulance illuminating the alley, making the criminal look even paler.

Help was here. He couldn’t see Beinir in the chaos that ensued, but what mattered was that _help was here_ , Glanni would be fine, they’d take him to the hospital, where doctors would take care of his injuries, _he was going to be fine; soon, they would continue their little game of hide and seek, everything would be alright_.

Íþrótt didn’t notice how one of the medics gently pried his fingers open and pulled him backwards to the wall, so they had more moving space. He didn’t notice how she put her hand on his forehead, then on his shoulder, only to quickly replace it with an orange blanket that she wrapped around his torso. He didn’t notice how badly he was shaking, how pale he was on his own, far from posing a challenge to Glanni, whose skin was sickly pale, grey and sweaty, but still. The only thing he noticed was that the medics carried a stretcher over and that they, after counting to five, lifted Glanni onto it.

Íþrótt only snapped back to reality when a voice broke through the thick fog that was his consciousness. He blinked a few times until the face of the medic kneeling in front of him sharpened. “Yes?” He almost didn’t recognise his own voice; he sounded _drained_ , tired.

“Do you want to come with us?”

His nod was weak, but she seemed to understand anyway. She helped him stand up, an arm around his waist, providing a steadying, comforting presence he, for once, leant on shamelessly.

He was too exhausted, emotionally, to care.

“Don’t worry,” the driver told him after his colleague had helped Íþrótt climb on the passenger seat. “He’ll be fine.”

Íþróttaálfurinn’s head fell sideways against the window. He listened to the engine as it roared to live, to the whispers coming from the back of the ambulance, where the two medics were treating Glanni, and watched the city lights pass by.

A few raindrops pattered on the glass; moments later, it began to rain heavily.

The sky was crying with him.

**Author's Note:**

> I finally had the time to write something and it's this: My newest project, something I've been working on for quite some time now. All in all, I probably have over 90 pages of research, more than I ever had for any term paper.  
> I want to thank JORDYN REDWOOD (redwoodsmedicaledge.com) for helping me with some of the medical aspects of this story, as well as kiyarasabel, who too helped me a lot and actually came up with some of the ideas I'll be using.
> 
> I'm no expert in medicine, so please excuse any errors that might come up in the story. Further, I'm not a native speaker and this isn't beta-read, so mistakes are bound to happen - if someone would be willing to beta-read for me, I'd be thrilled!
> 
> I also want to apologise for a lack of updates lately. Real life duties, term papers and exams, mostly, prevented me from writing. And even when I could have, my fixation on this story wouldn't let me work on anything else. Now that the first chapter is out, I can finally update my other stories as well!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter, let me know what you think! And, to finish with the words of Illidan Stormrage from World of Warcraft: " **You are not prepared.** "


End file.
